Missionary Life
Day Trips and Dating
Embarrassing Stories from Living Overseas
Some days overseas go perfectly well. Some days you almost accidentally get engaged. This is the story of how I nearly got a local girlfriend very early into my language-learning experience.
First, let me explain what an auto rickshaw is. This is a mode of transport that originated in Asia. It can now be found across the world from Cuba to Madagascar to Nepal to Indonesia. Commonly, it’s a three-wheeled vehicle that is used to transport passengers around. In some countries, it is a motorcycle that is pulling a passenger compartment.
I had a rickshaw driver, who I’ll call Vasim.* Vasim is a very close friend of mine, who has been with me through many adventures. He had suggested that he could take me to a local beauty spot, Lotus Island. This island was famous for its beauty and for the traditional crafts that were made there.
So, after my language lesson, I met with Vasim and we started our journey. It’s about 40 minutes north of the language school where I was studying at the time. So to get there, we had to drive through the city, cross a river by bridge, then continue up a highway.
The next bit was quite exciting and felt like a real adventure. But like any real adventure, it poses hidden dangers—one of which I succumbed to.
You have to get off the highway and join a bumpy, parallel back road to find the ferry terminal. This is essentially a gravel ramp that takes you onto an old boat that crosses the river. To cross in a rickshaw costs about 75p. This is where my problems started.
Vasim and I had to wait for the ferry to return from the island and as we did so a very friendly local woman came to talk to us. She lived on the island and helped us purchase our tickets. She suggested that we visite her house to see the silk weaving in process. We had a conversation (half in English, half in the local language). I told her a little bit about my family; she told me some information about hers. It was all very amicable. I felt quite proud of the amount of the local language I managed to use.
The ferry arrived. I got out of the rickshaw and walked onto the ferry, while Vasim waited behind the string of parking vehicles. In order to get a good view across the river, I thought I’d go upstairs. The view from the top deck was impressive: it showed just how massive the river is. The stretch to get to the island is wider than the Thames, and there’s the same again on the other side of the island.
There the local lady was up waiting, and she began talking to me again. As elements of local culture are based on a number of factors such as age, you ascertain personal details quickly in conversation so that you know how deferential to be towards one another. She knew I was 28, single, about to move to another city; I found it she was twenty-five and her husband left her when she was pregnant.
Westerners attract some attention due to the fact they walk around with dollar signs floating above their heads. Furthermore, for the locals, the ideal woman or man looks quite Western: blond hair, pale skin, large nose. All their beauty products, for males and females, contain skin whiteners in order to attain a ghostly complexion.
Therefore, I actually meet quite a few of these ideals. (It took me a while to not be offended every time a local person commented on how pallid I looked or how I had a bulbous nose. “Your skin is so white… Your nose is big…”) So, the conversation turned towards my appearance.
“You say you are twenty-eight but you look much younger. I am more young than you but look older,” she said.
I had a vague feeling where this was going; I knew I was being baited but being a polite Brit I had little option but to take the hook, line, sinker and the entire rod.
“You don’t look old,” I said in as a non-committal manner I could muster.
“Oh,” she giggled. “You are very handsome. Do you have a phone number?”
“I do but I can’t remember it,” I said, smiling helplessly, thankful that remembering strings of numbers was not a God-given gift of mine. I looked around for Vasim, and saw him just below me, with his rickshaw. The ferry’s engine was too loud to summon him: I was on my own.
“I write down my phone number…”
If I ever find myself trapped in a car that is slowly rolling towards the edge of a cliff, I am sure I will experience similar emotions. A strange sort of passivity overwhelmed me as I realised the destination of this conversation and I had a sense that whatever I did would either hasten the inevitable or would do very little to prevent it or some similar disaster.
“…maybe while you are in this city you could come here again. Or maybe in the evenings, I could meet in a restaurant with you. I could be your girlfriend before you move city. I get very sad and I will think about you. Keep this number and ring me.”
I certainly did not come to Asia to create the next remake of Madame Butterfly (despite being a fan of Miss Saigon — it has some great songs).
I quickly said that I was very busy before I move and it was unlikely that we would meet up. I muttered that I needed to go and talk to my rickshaw driver. I went downstairs and found Vasim, thinking I may have managed a tuck-and-roll from the metaphorical cliff-bound car.
“Vasim,” I shouted over the roar of the engine, “the lady gave me her phone number.”
“Yes,” he replied, “she wants us to visit her house to see her family make silk.”
“No, she—” The engine kicked up a gear. I couldn’t even hear the words form in my mouth; Vasim certainly wouldn’t hear me tell him that the lady thinks we’re dating. I was back in the metaphorical car once more.
The engine, despite the sounds that suggested it might not, made it to the port, Vasim jumped in the rickshaw, and all the other vehicles around me fired up their engines. There was no way I was going to be able to finish this conversation now. Vasim and the other vehicles left and I walked off the ferry.
I had a moment of blind panic. I couldn’t see Vasim or his rickshaw. However, he had slipped in front of a parked van and was waiting for me to get in the back of the rickshaw. About fifty metres ahead, my, er, “girlfriend” was waiting for us to follow her.
“Er, Vasim,” I said as I was sitting down in the back of the rickshaw. Too late. Vasim started off in pursuit of the lady who was taking us to her house. And so it was: the lady who wants me to date her is taking us to her house. I’ve only known her for half an hour and I’m already meeting her family. This was moving far too fast for my liking.
We stopped outside her house, and sure enough, underneath the home on stilts, sat three looms. There was a long table at the side, with a very old TV playing and two spinning wheels. She definitely made silk. Moreover, there were quite a few other people there, presumably her family and possibly my future in-laws. I nervously got out of the rickshaw.
“You want to come and see it too?” I asked Vasim trying to sound as casual as possible but also making sure that I was not about to leave Vasim’s side.
“Maybe I come,” he said in his usual polite manner. He got out and we approached the first of the three looms.
An elderly woman was sitting at it, and there was a young child in a hammock just behind. The woman from the boat told us about the process, a little bit about how the loom worked and how the pattern was created. We moved to the other looms, one of which was also able to weave cotton.
“I will show you our silk,” the lady from the boat told me. She got a bin bag full of fabrics and tipped them onto the table. She proceeded to show me the various design and types. “This is red with flowers. Very beautiful. Takes three week to make. This one is same design but green. Buy for gift for your mum.”
“This one is twenty-five dollars. This one is twenty. If you buy both I give it to you for forty. Special deal. Special deal.”
“These ones all fifteen dollars. These are not as big. The blue one is nice. The green one is nice. Which colour do you like? These are all silk. These ones are cotton. Ten dollars each for cotton. Green. Red and black. Blue and black. Just blue…”
I’ve heard many horror stories about foreign travellers accidentally becoming engaged to a local person. I’m not completely sure, but I think I had two choices: marry her or buy all her silk. I tried to remember how much money I had in my wallet and work out how much I could afford to spend.
I became acutely aware that Vasim was quite a few metres away, watching, —transfixed—the elderly woman work the loom. I called him over under the pretense of asking him to help me choose the silks. Vasim would prevent any potential cultural proposals. He’s exceptionally protective of me and is always exceptionally helpful.
My potential girlfriend continued to stare at me while I avoided eye contact. I quickly picked out some of the silk shawls. Fifty dollars, a cotton scarf for Vasim, and a final examination of the silk-weaving process later.
*All names of places and people have been changed to conceal our identities.
Justin Marsh is a missionary who has served in Asia for over six years. He is the country leader of a team of missionaries and has just completed an MA that looks at missional practice. Whilst his team works within a range of contexts across the country, Justin’s focus is the Muslim minority groups. He is the owner of the publication THE CO-MISSION.
